Burgers and Fries
by DDG
Summary: [Humor][Gen] “Welcome to McDonald’s. May I take your order?”
1. Lists

**Title:** Burgers and Fries, Part 1: Lists  
**Character/Pairing:** Lincoln Burrows, Michael Scofield, T-Bag, Fernando Sucre, C-Note, Charles Westmoreland  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Word Count:** 347  
**Warnings:** Mentions of violence and racism; swearing  
**Summary:** "Thousands of people commute by here on their way to work every single day. No one's going to notice a new face."  
**Author's Notes:** Food fic because Clex brought up a good point.  
**Beta:** AlmostForgiven  
**Disclaimer:** Not mine -- just taking them out for a little spin.

* * *

"No food? What kind of safe house is this, Michael?" 

Michael opened the drawer of a weathered desk and rummaged through its contents, eventually pulling out a working pen and a pad of paper.

"I was thinking we would order out tonight," he scribbled "groceries" across the top of the first sheet, "then do a little food shopping early tomorrow morning."

Lincoln scratched at a spot on the back of his head and sunk into a chair. "How are we going to pay for it, Michael?"

Glancing up and across the room to where C-Note and T-Bag were arguing over the TV remote, Michael shook his head, smiling. "Why do you think I robbed that bank?"

Laughing at Lincoln's unamused expression, Michael shook his head again. "That was a joke, Lincoln." Sighing, Michael tapped the pencil lightly against the paper. "Don't worry about money. Just worry about what you want to eat."

"Burgers. And fries." Lincoln leaned back, resting against the kitchen table. "God, a Big Mac sounds so good right now, Mike."

He slammed the chair back onto all four legs. "What about being seen? Shouldn't we be staying inside? Closing all of the shades? Locking all of the doors and windows?"

"That's exactly what they'd expect of us, so why play right into their hands?" Michael began writing the basic necessities—toilet paper, milk, eggs, bread—before adding, "Thousands of people commute by here on their way to work every single day." _Cereal, burger, pancake batter._ "No one's going to notice a new face."

_Ketchup, mustard, mayo . . ._

"We're nobodies at current, Lincoln." Michael glanced up at C-Note and T-Bag again as T-Bag snarled a racial slur and C-Note snarled back, the remote now forgotten on the couch. "And it'd be nice to keep it that way."

_Cover-up, colored contacts, hair dye, an electric razor . . ._

Westmoreland, claiming the remote, flipped on the TV and channel-surfed until he happened upon the local news.

_Shirts, pants, socks, underwear . . ._

Michael quietly set the pencil down and stood. He looked around the room and frowned. There was still so much to do.


	2. Menus

**Title:** Burgers and Fries, Part 2: Menus**  
Character/Pairing:** Lincoln Burrows, Michael Scofield, T-Bag, Fernando Sucre, C-Note, Charles Westmoreland  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Word Count:** 409  
**Warnings:** Mild violence, racism, swearing, ignorant McDonald's employees  
**Summary:** "Welcome to McDonald's. May I take your order?"  
**Author's Notes:** Dialogue fic, for the most part.  
**Beta:** AlmostForgiven  
**Disclaimer:** Not mine -- just taking them out for a little spin.

* * *

"Welcome to McDonald's. May I take your order?"

"Uh, yeah. Hold on a sec." Lincoln turned to the backseat. "What do you guys want?"

"Get your filthy hands off me!"

"_My_ hands are clearly offa you. Better blame someone else iffen you think someone's touchin' ya." T-Bag, rearranging himself to a more comfortable sitting position, roughly jammed an elbow into C-Note's ribs. "As if I'd touch a nigger like you with anything but a knife . . ."

"You say somethin', trailer park?" C-Note rammed his own elbow into T-Bag's side while attempting to scoot closer to Sucre.

"Oh, you heard me . . ."

"Don't think I did, actually. Maybe you ought to repeat it for the rest of the class?"

". . . nigger."

Like dominoes, as C-Note reached for T-Bag's seatbelt to begin strangling him with it, T-Bag shoved him back into Sucre before the two collectively fell onto Westmoreland.

"Hey! Jackasses! What the fuck do you want to eat?" Lincoln's reprimanding voice caught the attention of the four fugitives who, amid angry grumbles, pulled themselves back into the correct seat.

T-Bag, nearest to the menu, scanned various items. "Cheeseburger, cheeseburger meal, double cheeseburger, double cheeseburger meal, Big Mac, Big 'N Tasty, supersized . . ."

"Big Mac, get the fucking Big Mac!"

"Papi, fuck what he says—"

"A sundae," Westmoreland smiled, "supersized."

"Hey, uh, any of this made o' real meat—"

"If you want real meat, go to the grocery store—"

"—haven't had any, uh, McDonald's in awhile, ya know, an' I always wondered . . ."

"The chicken nuggets are supposed to be made from all white meat now—"

"Chicken nuggets? The hell are we, five?"

"Look," Lincoln, face beat red from listening to everyone's bickering, slowly enunciated his next words, "_if you don't make up your minds in the next ten seconds—_"

"You know, Burger King has better fries—"

"Fuck if they do!"

"Wendy's, man, you gotta go to Wendy's."

"_Oh, fuck it!_" Lincoln turned back to the speaker. "Yeah, I'm ready to order."

"Yes, sir? What will you be ordering today?"

"Just give me the entire menu and we'll go from there."

"Uh, excuse me, sir?"

"The entire menu. I want it all."

"Everything, sir?"

"Everything." Lincoln watched as the items slowly piled up on the order screen. "Oh, and the breakfast menu, too, while you're at it."

"We stop serving breakfast at—"

"_I know._ Just give me everything you've fucking got, all right?"

There was silence for a moment, then . . .

"Would you like to supersize anything today, sir?"


	3. Decisions

**Title:** Burgers and Fries, Part 3: Decisions  
**Character/Pairing:** Michael Scofield  
**Rating:** PG  
**Word Count:** 179  
**Warnings:** None.  
**Summary:** Decisions, decisions.  
**Author's Notes:** And Michael goes shopping /titter/  
**Beta:** AlmostForgiven  
**Disclaimer:** Not mine -- just taking them out for a little spin.

* * *

Michael held the grocery list in his hand, the paper slightly wrinkled from having been in his pocket only moments earlier. He pushed the shopping cart along an aisle, glancing at the first item.

_Toilet paper._

He turned the cart into the toiletries aisle and eyed the hundreds of different brands piled upon one another. Stopping the cart, he stood back, contemplating.

"Charmin . . . Quilted Northern . . ." He frowned, then reached for the nearest package and placed it and another of a different brand into his cart. _There. One item down._

He glanced back at the list.

"Milk," he tilted his head to read the signs above the aisles. "Ah, there. Dairy." The cart made its way toward the dairy section, a wobbly front wheel pulling it to the left, another dragging along, squeaking every once in awhile.

"Two percent, half, skim, two percent reduced fat, whole, lactose intolerant . . ." Unsure, Michael carefully piled as many different kinds of milk as he could into his cart.

He really should have asked for preferences before he left.


	4. Receipts

**Title:** Burgers and Fries, Part 4: Receipts  
**Characters:** T-Bag, Michael Scofield, Lincoln Burrows, Fernando Sucre, C-Note, Charles Westmoreland  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Word Count:** 1277  
**Warnings:** Swearing, violence, Spanish and racism.  
**Summary:** Within moments, another brawl had broken out, erupting in shouts filled with obscenities, cries of pain, and numerous claims of, "I never touched you!" "Did too!" before more punches were thrown, kicks were lashed out, and heads were bashed.  
**Author's Notes:** Happy belated birthday :D

* * *

They'd gone through eight gallons of milk in not even a week, along with three and a half tubs of butter, six boxes of pancakes, five boxes of Cocoa Puffs(not to mention, two boxes of Lucky Charms, three and a half boxes of Golden Grahams and four boxes of Cinnamon Toast Crunch), three packages of toilet paper(Michael and Lincoln suspected T-Bag had done something to C-Note's food, though C-Note claims he switched his plate with Sucre's), and an ungodly amount of soap and shampoo as the ragtag group changed their appearances.

Which meant the delegation of shopping duty was now up for grabs – and they were all fighting over who was going.

"Nuh uh, Papi, I'm going – "

"The wetback ain't going – "

"I'm Puerto Rican, _idiota_ – "

"Well, sor_ry_, _ese_ – "

"If anyone should go – "

" – I just don't want the _boriqua_ over there comin' home with a bunch of Hispanic shit – "

"Hey, _pendejo_, maybe I don't want you coming home with a bunch of greasy, Southern shit – "

" – it should be C-Note or Sucre – "

"T-Bag isn't going alone – "

"No one ever said he was going – "

"Uh, uh, uh – _I_ said I was goin' – "

"There's no way we're trusting you to go grocery shopping – "

"What? You think I'm gonna grab some housewife in frozen foods, drag her to dairy and fuck her next to the cheese wheels?"

"I wouldn't put it past you – "

"Look, _Sink_, I value my freedom s'much as you do – ain't gonna throw it away all that easily – "

"Everyone – "

"Fuck you _puta madre_!"

" – shut – "

"Get off me!"

" – the – "

"Let go of my arm!"

" – hell – "

"Whose fucking hand is – hey! Get that fucking thing outta there!"

" – UP!"

Heads swivelled in Michael's direction, the owners' expressions a priceless form of amazement mingled with pain – Lincoln had Sucre in a headlock; T-Bag was trapped somewhere beneath the both of them; C-Note was somewhere in the pile, grabbing at whatever he could reach and pulling; and Westmoreland was trapped in the fray, dangerously gripping one of T-Bag's arms with a foot in C-Note's face.

"Now," Michael stepped toward the bunch as they began untangling themselves, "I'm only going to explain this once."

Heads nodded slowly, and carefully, as limbs were removed from grasps, necks from locks, and bodies pulled themselves from the pile.

"Whoever is going shopping is not going alone." Michael's tone was passive, his gaze steady on his fellow fugitives. "And we're going to decide this civilly."

T-Bag was rubbing his arm where Westmoreland had gripped it, throwing scowling glances at the rest of the brawlers as they had quickly – and somehow without violent incident – filled the couch to it's maximum seating capacity. He sat himself solemnly on the floor near the television before turning his gaze onto Michael.

"And how do you propose we do that, Pretty?"

Michael was silent, his lips pursed in thought, as he considered the situation carefully.

After a moment, he smiled, having come to a conclusion.

"Well," he began, "of the six of us, four are eligible to go."

Sucre, confused, spoke for the portion of the household who were Not Michael as he questioned, "Four?"

Nodding, Michael responded, "I've already gone once, and seeing as half the country probably knows what Lincoln looks like . . . well, I don't think any more explanation is necessary.

"And so, to decide – fairly, of course – on who will be going – "

"Let's just settle this now, all right? T-Bag is _not going_, and neither are me or Michael. That leaves you three – "

"Hey, who said you get to decide who's going and who's not going?"

"I _am_ going on this endeavor, whether you like it or not – "

"I think," Westmoreland promptly relinquished his place on the couch as he spoke, and paced quietly over to Michael, "I'm going to stay out of this one, Michael. And," he placed his hand gently on Michael's shoulder, smiling slightly, "if you know what's good for you, you had better let them fight it out themselves."

As Westmoreland made his way down the hall toward the bedroom he shared with C-Note and Sucre, Michael shook his head, turned, and made his own way into the kitchen.

" – not going – "

" – _am_ going – "

" – _are not_ going – "

Within moments, another brawl had broken out, erupting in shouts filled with obscenities, cries of pain, and numerous claims of, "I never touched you!" "Did too!" before more punches were thrown, kicks were lashed out, and heads were bashed.

There was an elbow in Lincoln's face, jabbing into his eye. With a growl, he grabbed the offending appendage and twisted before pulling himself upon the owners back.

One roar and fifteen obscenities later, Lincoln found himself pinned to the floor by a brawling T-Bag and C-Note, with Sucre groaning beneath him for Lincoln to let go of his arm, Papi, it don't go that way.

He lashed out with his free arm, smashing his elbow into whatever flesh he could, before he collided with skull and the crack that followed forced him to stop, because the one who was now Thoroughly Knocked Out had fallen back, freeing Lincoln enough to where he could take command.

"Okay, whoever's still conscious, congratulations, you're going shopping."

"Told you I was goin', Sink," T-Bag panted, sprawled on his back, chest heaving and blood trailing down his chin.

Lincoln glanced back at C-Note whose forehead now sported a very large bump, the rest of his face complete with a bloody nose and lip, and a steadily swelling eye.

"Well," he started, his own breathing slowly normalizing, "looks like you're on escort duty, Sucre."

"Hell no! I ain't being his babysitter – "

Sucre's words were punctuated by a rather agonizing scream as Lincoln pulled his arm harder and farther up his back.

"Say _uncle_," Lincoln grinned, leaning in closer to put more weight on Sucre's arm.

"He's old enough to be by himself!"

T-Bag, now sitting up and watching Lincoln and Sucre's quarrel, quipped, "Yeah, Sink. Ain't like I'm a child."

"You might as well be!"

"You'refuckingnutsthere'snowayI'mgoingtobehisbabysitter!"

"You'regoingtobehisbabysitterandthat'sallthereistoitnowsayuncledammit!" Lincoln yanked on Sucre's arm one last time and forced a meager, "Uncle!" from his victim's lips.

"There," Lincoln nodded as he released Sucre's arm and stood. "Now aren't we all happier that this is over with?"

* * *

"We're 'bout to cross the street. You think I should hold your hand?"

Sucre smacked T-Bag's hand away and waited for the light to turn. "Not my loss if you get hit by a car."

"I'ma tell Lincoln that babysitter was bein' mean to me!" T-Bag sniveled, his lower lip jutting out in a pout.

"_Vaya al infierno_," Sucre growled back, quickly crossing the street as the light turned red.

"'And babysitter was talkin' bad 'bout me in other languages, Lincoln! And, and Lincoln, _su madre tiene un bigote_!'"

"Tu _madre tiene un bigote_!"

"Fuck you!"

"'But Lincoln, I had to beat the piss out of him! He said my mother has a mustache!'"

"'But _Lincoln_, he started it!'"

"_Besa mi culo_!"

"'Then he told me to kiss his ass, and I think he's a child molester!'"

"Talk about calling the kettle black," Sucre spat, before adding, "And what makes you think Lincoln cares what happens to you anyway, _cara de culo_?"

T-Bag glowered at Sucre as he trailed behind, but refused to comment.

Having successfully Shut T-Bag The Fuck Up, Sucre took a moment to look for the grocery store as they reached the next corner.

"Uh." He swept his gaze up and down the street before craning his neck to read the street sign.

"Where'd Michael say that store was again?"


End file.
